


Nepotism

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: From a Certain Point of View - Various Authors, Star Wars: Tarkin - James Luceno
Genre: Dirty Talk, Eriadu, F/F, Femslash February, M/M, Mixing Legends with Canon, Multiple Orgasms, NSFW In Second Chapter, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Overstimulation, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Praise Kink, Primal Domme, Rough Sex, Set Between 3 and 1 BBY, Vaginal Fingering, primal play, star wars femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: “So you're the foundling Wil’s been on about.  You’ve spent ten years in a position any Academy student would slit your throat for.  You’ve cost our sector more than three of your sort usually does combined.  And somehow, you stand to rise further yet.”Daala’s jaw tenses, her underarms stinging with sweat.  “It is an honor to meet one of Governor Tarkin’s oldest confidantes.  He has spoken kindly of your influence.”Thalassa laughs, confident and true.  “He would hate to hear you say that to me without a sneer to accompany it.  And more emphasis on the ‘old’, certainly.  I’m tempted to have you try that again.”A piece originally intended for Femslash February 2018.
Relationships: Natasi Daala/Other(s), Natasi Daala/Thalassa Motti, Natasi Daala/Thalassa Tarkin, Orson Krennic/Wilhuff Tarkin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

“She will be there tonight, will she not?” Daala asks as lightly as one can when attempting to gossip with Wilhuff Tarkin. They are seated, as they always are before events, in his private quarters with a pot of Hydian caf between them. Daala would not dare be so sentimental as to name it a tradition.

Tarkin’s expression remains impassive. He takes a sip from his cup, frowning once he’s swallowed it. “That drink is not speaking to you, _Captain_. Eyes up.”

“ _How do you manage under him_?” Sloane had asked her at fourteen, handing her a glass of wine. “ _A year in—you cannot still be deluded as to his true nature_.”

“ _I trust that he knows better than I do_ ,” she had replied, unflinching at Sloane’s look of distaste. 

“ _Men like Tarkin—they will never view you as anything but a tool at best and an object at worst. See to it that your wiles aren’t used against you_.”

_My wiles_. Daala could roll her eyes, and Tarkin’s private comm chiming 34 times in as many seconds with Krennic’s serial code does not help matters.

“Now, you refer to Thalassa Motti, I presume?”

“Yes,” Daala grits out, her voice lowered in frustration. “You have spoken of her many times as a dear friend to your family.”

Tarkin closes his eyes, a hand coming to rest upon his chin. “False chatter and cheer does not suit your manner nor your rank.”

“Then I wish to ask you if Lady Thalassa Motti will be present at the gala tonight,” Daala tries again, her stare unwavering. "I have been hoping to meet her."

Tarkin relents, though not with grace. “Of course she will be. She was the force behind the gallery’s creation, as you doubtlessly know, and is why it is named for my brother’s family in the first place. You are not asking in order to learn, but rather to broach a subject.”

Daala resists the urge to fold and unfold her hands at Tarkin’s accuracy. To admit it, however, would be to verbally submit to his conquest. Instead, she stares into her caf once more, careful to lift her eyes before addressing him again.

“I have been researching her for several months. She is an accomplished woman on Eriadu, and heads her family’s megonite mining corporation to great acclaim.” 

“She pays her nephew to run the business upon Phelarion. She is far more invested in playing the heiress, as she ever was. Now, tell me what you’ve spent the past quarter-hour attempting to goad me into discussing.”

_You already know_. Daala squares her shoulders, crossing her legs. “I believe that she may be a suitable match.”

Tarkin’s reply is instant, unconcerned. “My brother’s wife was adopted by Thalassa’s parents as a child following the assassination of her family. They visited us every summer until I left for Sullust and Gideon wed Meri.” In the breath between sentences, Tarkin’s comm chimes twice more, his grip upon it white. “There was talk, of course, of Thalassa and I doing the same, though I cannot imagine the horror she would embody as a wife.”

Daala smiles, lifting her cup with a steady hand. “I wouldn’t mind finding out.”

Tarkin’s glare would make durasteel jealous. “You are either far braver than I, or far more foolish. I lean towards the latter, especially considering your last dalliance.”

Thoughts of Arihnda no longer sting in her belly as they once had, and Daala easily sips her caf. She’d learned from her, and when she’d been dismissed, Tarkin had told her as much, handing her a handkerchief and a datapad.

“ _Do not dream of tying yourself to my aide when there is finer prey to hunt_.”

But Leia Organa would not be that. Daala’s face blooms red at the memory, half in embarrassment and half in rage. She had only realized upon her failure that she had been being groomed to court her—and she knows now that it is a testament to her skill rather than to Tarkin’s kindness that she was not discarded immediately following it.

“It is as you said—I learned from Pryce,” Daala replies, her brow set. “Since then, I have adopted a strict personal policy against relations within our military complex,” she adds before she can stop herself.

Tarkin’s face loses any lingering trace of humor. “Return to your quarters and style your hair appropriately. With the hours you spend preening, you should recall by now that an odd number of hair ornaments is only worn by Eriadian slaves.”

_Preening_ , he calls it. _As though he isn’t doused in more lavender water than I am_. 

Tarkin’s comm chimes again, this time with the command bridge’s serial code. He accepts it immediately.

“Sir, Director Krennic is requesting to speak to you. Should I put him through to the main line in your quarters?”

Daala is all too eager to bow and abandon her drink, her laugh obscured by the clatter of her feet and the swish of the door.

+++

Eriadu City, upon arrival, does little to impress Daala. It is not half so grand as Aldera, nor is it even a quarter as sleek as Coruscant’s upper levels. Instead, it is industrial to its core, smoking stacks dotting its outline, a pale orange haze cocooning it even at night. Still, it draws a satisfied noise from Tarkin beside her, and that is enough to force a smile onto her lips.

“Remain with the shuttle and keep an eye on the perimeter,” he tells two of the four Death Troopers accompanying them upon landing at an unassuming docking bay. “One of you, guard this entrance while the other stays at the main landing. I do not foresee danger here tonight.” 

Like the city itself, the circular hall and the crowd into which she and Tarkin walk are too small to give Daala pause, the art a mess of colors and shapes that she has no interest in trying to decipher. She looks to Tarkin, whose eyes are fixated upon the center of the room, where a forest of statues reaches towards the vaulted transparisteel ceiling. Amidst them is a woman who, from Daala’s angle, is the sun all of the guests orbit around, each one looking to her as they pass by. Despite the height and materials of the sculptures, she is the grandest figure among them, clad in a deep blue gown the color of her eyes, her bust and hips dramatically narrowing into the three-tiered belt thick with embroidery around her waist. The moment she hears the crowd grow silent, however, she brushes them all aside, her movements fluid beyond training.

“There you are, Wil! You’re late enough this evening that I was about to send the Outland Regions to find you!” she calls, brushing the guards aside to kiss a sour-faced Tarkin on his cheek, cobalt nails gripping his shoulders. With her hair piled high and her back straight, she is of a height with him. 

“Thalassa. Your charms are as _bountiful_ as ever.”

“And yours as lacking.” 

Facing the crowd, Thalassa beams, Tarkin held in place at her side. “It is with great relief that I announce to you that our dear Grand Moff has finally arrived! You’ll have to forgive his absence at the past few fundraisers for the Tarkin Memorial Gallery—I hear that he’s been quite busy.” 

A humorless, polite laugh echoes through the room, and Thalassa drinks it in, pausing before continuing. “I believe that you all have had the pleasure of his acquaintance before, but do come introduce yourself if you haven’t. From what I recall, he has quite the strong opinions on art when prodded for them!”

There is a wave of soft, unhurried clapping, and then the monolith of the partygoers begins to diffuse once more. Half of them move towards Tarkin’s unoccupied side, though their eyes fixate on Daala. She gives them a closed-lipped smile, nearly relieved when Thalassa turns to her, clasping her hands together until they disappear into the fabric of her sleeves. 

“Go mingle, Wil. Your captain and I have some catching up to do.”

Before Daala is truly aware of what has happened, her hand has been placed into the crook of Thalassa’s arm, her feet dragging her along the gallery’s floor. Uncertain of how to break free amidst the cacophony of display cases and bodies, Daala does not resist.

When Thalassa finally pauses, it is before an empty transparisteel case. “So you're the foundling Wil’s been on about,” she says to Daala, facing her rather than their reflections. “You’ve spent ten years in a position any Academy student would slit your throat for. You’ve cost our sector more than three of your sort usually does combined. And somehow, you stand to rise further yet.”

Daala’s jaw tenses, her underarms stinging with sweat. “It is an honor to meet one of Governor Tarkin’s oldest confidantes. He has spoken kindly of your influence.”

Thalassa laughs, low and true. She does not remove Daala’s hand from her elbow. “He would hate to hear you say that to me without a sneer to accompany it and more emphasis on the ‘old’. I’m tempted to have you try that again.” 

Expectation falls upon Daala as a palpable weight. When she speaks, it is to Thalassa’s reflection. “What he has told me of you intrigues me.”

Thalassa’s lips quirk with interest. They are dark purple, lush against the angularity of her jaw and eyebrows. “‘Intrigues’ you, does it? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three standard years, ma’am.”

“Then you should be more proficient at working a room and able to notice and correct Wil’s mistakes in your own demeanor when doing so.” Thalassa looks over her shoulder, Daala’s head turning away from the case. “These paintings won’t swallow you up, no matter how intently either of you glare at them.”

“I’m better at developing battle simulations and editing war doctrines. Or so I’ve been told.”

Thalassa hums, her eyes roving along Daala’s form. “I don’t doubt that. Wil is what he always has been—utilitarian to the core. I know that you are not the prize to him anyone else would assume you were. No, he must keep you around for another purpose. I’d ask you what it was, though I doubt you’d answer truthfully.”

“Leia Organa,” she replies, surprising both herself and Thalassa, who rewards her with a flash of her teeth. “He intended for me to court her as an Imperial escort during her travels. She—ah, she stated that she was not of an age to consider it and that her preferences lay elsewhere.”

Thalassa’s hand against Daala’s hair is cool against the heat of anger that has enveloped her. “Then I believe you’ll enjoy this one.”

Daala allows herself to be led again, her body matching the rhythm Thalassa sets with an ease that makes her shiver. When they stop, it is before a portrait of two women nuzzled against one another in a garden, a plump infant waving at their feet. 

Thalassa smiles at Daala, her expression expectant. “An original by one of Eriadu’s student artists about to finish her uppers. Ladies Jave and Jea Tarkin with their son. I’m sure Wil weaned you on that old story, all things considering.”

“I’ve never seen a portrait of them that didn’t include the cave bear pelt.”

“You’ve never seen one of Jea clothed, you mean to say. Nuri intended it to be a domestic scene, knowing her. A sweet thing, if better at landscapes than faces.”

  
  
Daala nods. She observes Thalassa in lieu of a reply, watching one of her manicured hands press against the transparisteel over the child’s face, the pearls embedded in her rings catching the light from the sky above them.

“Jave was the first woman to head the Outland Regions, you know, in addition to everything else.” The ferocity of her gaze upon Daala would unnerve a lesser woman. “Though I’m hardly one for the fray of battle, it pleases me to see that Wil hasn’t forgotten her legacy while dealing with the rest of the galaxy.”

Again, Daala nods, aware of the warmth flaring in her body. She is no longer certain it is anger.

“Not a talkative one, are you? I should expect that from a soldier, though I do like your wit when you are caught off-guard enough to use it.”

“I am not used to discussing art with civilians.”

Thalassa chuckles, though there is no warmth in it. “Colors and shapes and the stories behind them that defy logic. You must have been grateful to escape the prattle and cooing of the Alderaanian princess, then. Politicians are the worst civilians, though you likely find mining heiresses worse after your experiences with us. I cannot say I blame you.”

Arihnda’s scowl replaces Daala’s indifference. “I remain undecided.”

Thalassa makes a quiet, thoughtful noise, leading Daala away from the empty case towards another group portrait many times the size of the last. A mother, father, and toddler child stand in the same garden, all clad in deep blue and olive and slate, their faces emotionless yet not unhappy. Though closer to the throng of people, it is as ignored as the empty case had been, rust on a lower bolt suggesting that it is one of the older installations.

“Meri, Gideon, and little Rivoche,” Thalassa says in the tone of voice Daala would imagine her using if she had been introducing them to her in the flesh. “This was the piece that inspired me to fund the rest of this gallery. Meri always did love portraits.”

Daala is too stunned to respond immediately, unfamiliar tears edging into her vision from the warmth in the four faces that stare down at her. Even when she focuses on the lilies the three painted ones hold instead, an intimacy that makes her skin itch has settled beneath her uniform.

“Gideon there used to call him ‘Huff-Huff’, you know. They were both such pouty, spoiled things until they went off on those trips with Jova. Gideon came back a gentleman, but Wil—Wil took that place to heart.” 

Daala nods, forcing her face to remain in the cold, composed lines of her mentor’s.

“And Meri—the finest woman borne of this planet. My sister, in truth—not quite a foundling like you, but near enough to it. Too clever to be shy but too kind to be sarcastic, impossible to hate unless you were envious of her.”

When Thalassa speaks again, her voice is as low and tight as the knot in Daala’s stomach.

“And Rivoche. Oh, Rivoche. Fifteen years since the attack and I still cannot speak of her with any of the grace that child deserves. You’ll have to forgive my civilian sensibilities for that.” 

“I do,” Daala murmurs, closing her eyes. When she opens them, she focuses on her reflection rather than the image behind it. 

“Every time I look upon them, I am reminded why I refused Wil’s proposal.” 

When Daala’s mouth opens in surprise, Thalassa smiles. “Oh, he did it for duty, of course. As I said—the Carrion made something of him that has no room for softness in the one who stands beside him. I knew that when it was much easier to have my words dismissed than my toys stolen, and I know that now, when he scoffs at my wiles.”

_A tool at best and an object at worst_. Daala frowns, watching Thalassa’s painted lips in their reflections mimic hers. “You believe he thinks you lesser because you are a woman?”

“No,” Thalassa purrs, turning to rest her hand against Daala’s cheek. “He considers me of lesser value because I have not, in his eyes, performed my duty as a citizen of Eriadu—either in governance or marriage. He is ignorant of civilian life even as he scorns it, and forgets that I may yet take a bride for myself. One worthy of me simply hasn’t come along.”

Daala kisses her then, and Thalassa expects it enough to tilt her head into the shadows, obscuring their faces from the edge of the crowd.

“We shouldn’t,” Daala manages, even as her hands press against the sides of Thalassa’s waist. “Tarkin—he would disapprove of this.”

Thalassa’s smile is slow, her dark lipstick smudged above her chin. “And do you think that he listened to his father’s council when he suggested other brides after me? No, my dear. Wilhuff is nothing if not unapologetic in his desires. I should hope that you are as well.” 

Daala takes a shuddering, steadying breath. “Take me back to your apartments.”

Thalassa laughs, sweeping Daala’s arm into hers once more as she parts the throng of guests. 

“Wil, your poor captain just told me that the shower in her quarters broke earlier. I would be a terrible hostess if I didn’t offer her my own. We’ll catch up with you later, hmm?”

Tarkin nods, waving his hand to dismiss Daala. She bows towards him as much as Thalassa’s grip allows her to.

Thalassa gives her a conspiratorial wink. “Now, wasn’t that easy?”


	2. Chapter 2

Much like the woman herself, Thalassa’s speeder is grandeur edging on the brink of gaudiness. It is a luxury model that Daala recognizes for its autopilot function, long and sleek. Thalassa sits in the space behind the control pad, tugging Daala into her lap before she can slip in beside her.

Thalassa smiles, pressing the screen before her with one hand while the other digs into Daala’s waist. “Oh no, my dear. I’m not letting you go now that I have you.”

Daala’s eyes narrow. She kisses Thalassa as the speeder begins to move, shifting until she’s managed to straddle her. Her mouth tastes of wine and vanilla and wax, and Daala finds the combination nearly too intoxicating to maintain her posturing. She pushes Thalassa’s shoulders against the speeder seat, her movements rough from both need and the discomfort of the evening. 

Thalassa is laughing when Daala finally pulls away to examine her work. Her eye paint is as smudged as her lipstick now, though beneath it, her eyes remain deep-set and knowing. _They are of a color with Tarkin’s_ , she realizes with a shiver. But while they are intense, Thalassa’s lack anything but approval.

“You could only speak to my reflection in those paintings. And yet here you are devouring me, my fierce thing.” 

Daala fights the prickle of tears, anger and anxiety warring in her. “Looking into my eyes as well. You must like what you see there. Jova used to tell me that I had river eyes. Prophet’s eyes.” 

Swallowing her feelings down, Daala nods, her determination steady even if her emotions are not. “They are very beautiful, my lady.”

“‘My lady’,” Thalassa muses, rewarding Daala with a kiss to her forehead as the speeder comes to a halt. “Mm, I’ll keep that one in mind, but call me ‘Thalassa’, Natasi.”

At the sound of her given name, Daala pulls away, causing her to almost fall backwards into the control pad. She hasn’t associated it with herself in years.

“‘Natasi’,” Thalassa repeats, Daala’s wrist in her grip as she leads her into the penthouse’s upper quarters. “When was the last time anyone called you that?”

“A new recruit last week did,” she quips, scanning her surroundings out of more than just trained caution. “I had him demoted to compactor duty for it.”

Thalassa smiles, cupping Daala’s face in her smooth, cool palms. “‘ _Little fox_ ’ in Irmeni,” she murmurs, as though considering the suitability of it. “You must have had that hair of yours from birth.”

Daala makes a soft sound—one she knows she should disguise as a cough. Her eyes avoid Thalassa’s, darting about once more. 

“No one will bother us this evening,” Thalassa assures her, dropping her hands. She moves without urgency towards a vanity bench, beginning to wipe away her smudged lipstick. “I told my assassins to take the night off in honor of your visit.”

The layout of the upper apartment is far from the minimalism Daala is accustomed to, rich with animal pelts and artwork, hundreds of cosmetic bottles displayed in neat rows beside the vanity table on the wall across from the door. A transparisteel skylight decorated with swaths of hothouse flowers rises over a bubbling pool, petals decorating its surface. Though the heat and scent of it draws Daala closer, it is the bed covered in blue velvets and silks that serves as the centerpiece of the room. There is the sense that, if she were to spend enough time gathering the stories of these objects, Daala could know Thalassa’s very soul. As her eyes travel again towards the garlands of lilies and pots filled with succulents, Daala shudders, crossing her arms and looking away. 

“Come sit with me,” Thalassa calls, sliding over and patting the space beside her on the padded seat. Though Daala obeys, she musters enough pride to stiffen when Thalassa begins petting her again.

Thalassa’s tutting mimics the gurgle of the water, low and pleased. She unclasps each of the durasteel cuffs securing Daala’s hair until it flows freely to her elbows, passing her own brush through it. 

“Now, I believe that we were on the topic of this lovely copper hair of yours. Most with it tend to resemble tomatoes more than they do you.” 

  
  
Praise is not a language Daala is fluent in. “Governor Tarkin's was the same color once, before the Clone Wars.”

Thalassa’s own hair tumbles down to her hips once she removes the two combs holding it, black and starlight silver. “It’s Wilhuff, Wilhuff, Wilhuff with you. I can practically hear you thinking of him even when you don’t speak, attempting to mimicking him. Hardly your fault after ten years as his protégée, but do not give him the satisfaction of a third party in my bed.”

Daala allows the words to go unregistered, undoing her tunic and reaching into its inner pocket for her hair fork, swirling it into a bun. She watches as Thalassa catches her eyes in the mirror and frowns, rising to free her hair once more.

Thalassa smiles, petting Daala’s arms as she squirms. Her chin rests atop Daala’s head. “There we are, my vixen. Now, we can have a little tussle for dominance if you’d like. I know your nature, how you command officers as I do my servants. You’re a woman in your own right, but not under my hand.” 

“I am not a maid in any sense of the word,” Daala snaps, pushing Thalassa’s hands off of her. “Don’t think me your prey.”

“Of course not,” Thalassa chuckles, coming to hold her from behind once more. “Every woman seeking a bride upon Eriadu is a huntress, and only the bland or weak hunt docile things. No, women like me seek predators—clever vixens who prowl the stars and who take pride in their ruthlessness. Only a creature such as that is one worthy of my attentions.”

_And what if you are not worthy of mine?_ Daala thinks, even as she knows Thalassa would laugh at her bluff. Instead, she allows her to slip her tunic off of her, unbuckling her belt.

“Undress for me,” Thalassa commands, warm yet firm. “I want to let you play in the pool you were staring at so intently. Perhaps I’ll even join you.”

Daala grits her teeth and begins removing her boots and stockings, turning and standing before Thalassa once she’s done so. She meets her eyes as she slips off her breeches and undergarments, brazen and efficient. A thrill of confidence flows through her once she is fully nude, and she smiles, brushing her hair over her shoulder once more.

“A natural beauty indeed,” Thalassa muses, addressing the bronze hair atop Daala’s mound. She turns her back to Daala, unhooking her belt to reveal the lacing of her gown. “Undo the top two knots and the button at the waist. I’ll take care of the rest while you cozy up in the water.” 

Daala does so without hesitation, though her fingers catch against the dark silk of Thalassa’s corset beneath. She guides the bodice down Thalassa’s shoulders until her head turns to face her, her mouth pursed. Daala offers a flick of her lashes in response, walking into the pool until the ends of her hair grow wet and dark. She sits on the carved edge, the water frothing at the lower curve of her breasts, watching Thalassa bare herself without ceremony beyond a flash of teeth at Daala once she is naked save for her rings and bangles.

“My, my,” Thalassa gasps, easing into the water. Her body beneath her gown is shaped much the same as it was in it, curving all over in a way that makes Daala’s hands itch to touch. Though she lacks Daala’s muscle, there is strength in her shoulders, in her height, in her bearing. “You and I both left our clothing in such a mess on the floor. Wil’s influence upon you is transient indeed.”

“If I am not to mention him, than neither are you,” Daala smirks, Thalassa’s breasts heavy and warm in her hands. She presses her own against them, brushing her nipples against Thalassa’s until she moans.

“You smell of caf and lemon oil,” Thalassa murmurs, settling next to Daala before kissing her deeply. Daala allows herself to be pulled onto Thalassa’s lap, the heat of the water and the feel of soft, bare skin along her back lulling her into a calm she knows is dangerous to indulge in.

“I’ll bed you properly when you’re my bride,” Thalassa croons, nosing and rubbing her cheek down Daala’s throat, as if scenting her. “You’ve never seen the likes of an Eriadian wedding, I can assure you. That beautiful shamelessness will serve you well.”

Daala’s spine arches, her breath catching as Thalassa breaches her cleft, her rings cool and smooth against the tender flesh. In this moment, she desires Thalassa for more than a simple urge and a haughty face—for more than she feels capable of admitting to herself. In barely two hours, this woman has begun deconstructing her, finding the worth of her parts greater than the whole Tarkin has assembled them into. 

Thalassa makes several soft, encouraging noises, using her unoccupied hand to shake one of the garlands until more black-dappled orange petals fall into the pool. A kiss is placed at the nape of her neck, and then Thalassa begins to rub Daala raw.

The sudden assault makes Daala yelp, and it is only Thalassa’s arm around her waist that keeps her from falling into the water. There is no seduction to her motions, none of the elegance or teasing that Daala might have expected. Instead, there is only a thudding pleasure that makes her seize, Thalassa’s lips against her jugular. 

“Yes, you’re right where you belong, vixen. You’ll do well by my hand—just as you already are.”

Long moments pass, and Daala’s belly is soon as roiling as the water beneath her. “My duty is not here,” she finally pants, Thalassa’s words as slick as her fingers. She struggles under her grip, and yet she craves more, succeeding only in grinding harder against Thalassa.

“Better at analysis than introspection, aren’t you?” Thalassa growls, her movements relentless. “There’s a predator in you, though you fixate too much on strategy and Wil’s opinion to value it. It’s high time you came into your own, my caged fox. Into your instinct, your power. And I’ll guide you every step of the way.” 

Daala finishes with a shout. “Focus on me,” Thalassa hisses, tugging her hair until she opens her eyes. Tears she does not recall shedding wet her face. “Be good and perhaps I’ll even allow you to hunt for your own bridal pelt. The gods won’t mind if we make pretty babies under it.”

The noise Daala responds with is desperate, her mouth falling open. “Oh, you like the thought of me putting a child in you, do you? You’re Eriadian in truth, then.” Thalassa’s arm shifts so that her palm rests against the flat of Daala’s stomach, her thumb stroking her navel, two fingers of the other hand circling her entrance. “You’ll pop right out of that uniform of yours. I can see the swell of your belly beneath your tunic now, those emerald eyes daring anyone to harm you and yours.”

When Daala climaxes again, it is with a scream she has been swallowing for years. It holds need, grief, hope—all of the emotions she buried with her parents as a child, when the endless sea had devoured their white-wrapped bodies.

“My brave bride. I knew there was a wild creature under that resolve.”

Daala heaves out first one breath and then another, slipping out of Thalassa’s arms until she is treading water, her knees folding to keep her afloat. She ducks her head beneath the surface in an attempt to collect herself, but succeeds only in letting out a choked sob. Listening to the dull rush of the water above, she curls into herself as though safe in some great womb. 

It is that thought that makes her lose the last of her air to another cry. 

When she surfaces, Daala rests a hand upon Thalassa’s mound, her eyes red but her smile sharp. It falls, however, when Thalassa clasps her shoulder and guides her hand away. 

“You’re far too tired for that,” she coos, pressing a kiss to Daala’s forehead. “Let’s tuck you into bed and then I’ll take care of my own needs.”

Still trembling, Daala uses the last of her energy to seize Thalassa’s wrist, tugging her upright as she rises from the pool and walks towards the bed. 

“I am no traitor,” she says, crowding Thalassa until she finally lies back upon the bed, her expression unreadable. “I am a captain in the Imperial Navy. You may think me an upstart, but I am loyal to those I serve, no matter how pretty your promises are.”

Thalassa raises her eyebrows, smiling. Daala climbs atop her, her motions rough as she rubs into her wetness. She nearly climaxes again when it coats her fingers, overcome by the swell of triumph she feels at having aroused this woman.

“I will die a thousand times over before I forsake my duty for you.”

Thalassa moans and purses her mouth, a pageantry in both actions that angers Daala when she herself has been laid bare. However, Thalassa’s eyes hold nothing but admiration, and they disarm her long enough for Thalassa to flip and pin her, the hands that bruise her wrists softer than any opponent’s before.

“There,” Thalassa coos, letting go to stroke Daala’s breasts once she allows the tension to seep from her. “I’ve indulged you long enough. We don’t have enough time this evening for me to teach you how to pleasure me. Let me have my fill this way instead.”

Daala’s body shudders at the thought, her core throbbing once more. She feels Thalassa spread her legs, which loll open without resistance, and then her mouth marking its way up towards her cunt. When she bites her upper thigh hard enough to draw blood, Daala’s pulse catches in her throat.

“You promised to bring out the beast in me, _my lady_ , not the quarry,” she pants, getting a handful of Thalassa’s hair as she does so, pulling it until she bares her teeth.

“Oh, vixen. You’ll learn soon enough that I am a woman of my word.”

+++

Thalassa waits nearly an hour after Daala’s breathing has evened with sleep to rise from beside her, tucking her mother’s bridal pelt against her back in place of her body. She slips on a dressing robe and mules, forms a bun with Daala’s discarded hair fork, and applies a fresh coat of lipstick. 

“Set course for the _Executrix_ ,” she tells her shuttle’s navigation droid, the smell of sweet lemon and sex nearly tangible in the enclosed space by the time they’re in orbit. 

Once the hulking mass begins to transmit static to her com, Thalassa speaks into it. “Inform Tarkin that Lady Thalassa Motti’s shuttle requires immediate entry.”

“He’s already cleared you for landing and entry, ma’am. There’s a guard waiting in the hangar to take you to him.”

Indeed, two guards silently escort her to Tarkin’s quarters, shiny and dark as beetles. _Death troopers_ , she thinks, shaking her head at the name for the hundredth time. _And he calls me the melodramatic one_.

Tarkin looks up from his datapad when Thalassa enters, his nose wrinkling at the scent of her. Her own does the same when she sees a white cape sprawled at his feet.

“I trust that she is to your satisfaction?”

Smiling, Thalassa sits down across from him, pouring herself a glass of brandy. “You’d best begin her promotion forms.”

Tarkin sets the datapad aside, his hand resting upon his chin. “You would be wise to recall the original terms of our agreement. I will do nothing of the sort until your mining vessels are docked upon Eadu and the funds promised transferred to the Tarkin Initiative.” 

“Come now, Wilhuff,” she coos, resting a hand upon his knee. “Don’t deny your nursery-mate her bride for another six months.”

Tarkin does not dignify Thalassa with a reaction. “Regardless of your fancies, she needs more time under my supervision before she is fit to be an admiral, much less the governor of the Seswenna sector.”

A snore erupts from the bundle of pelts in the bed several meters away. Upon closer inspection, Tarkin’s belt still binds its ankles.

“Krennic, I presume?”

Tarkin chuffs out a breath before Thalassa can form a proper quip. “He managed to interrogate a now-defunct bridge officer into revealing my location for the next standard week.” 

Thalassa tuts, enjoying Tarkin’s displeasure. “He’s infatuated with you.”

“He is infatuated with power he is incapable of wielding,” Tarkin replies, as calmly as if he were complimenting Thalassa’s robe. “Sooner rather than later, he will die by my hand.”

Thalassa’s gaze rises above Tarkin’s head, staring into the darkness of open space behind him, at the void that will be his grave. _Prophet’s eyes_.

“But she will not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Grad school relegated this fic to my drafts. As I mentioned in the summary, it was originally intended for Femslash February 2018. “Of MSE and Men” was still a new topic, and there was a wave of discussion regarding Daala’s possible place in canon. I knew about Thalassa through Rivoche, and this fic was born from there. Ultimately, it was a nice way to revisit my version of Eriadu and play with mixing Legends and canon.
> 
> -My fics “The Infanta” and “From Kingship Lowered” flesh out the worldbuilding I touch upon here. As always, much love to @baethoven for helping lay down the foundation for the Eriadu in my fics. I tried to make this one as much of a standalone as possible, but I recommend the ones mentioned above if you like femslash with a similar cast of characters (and more Tarkrennic).


End file.
